When you grew up watching people run the con, then started doing it yourself before you were even fifteen, you got a good idea who had money and who was only going to be able to pop over twenty bucks or so, including the tip.

Don’t get me wrong, money was money, and I’d take it wherever I could get it. But it wasn’t as hard to squeeze somebody for money when they had plenty of it.

Maybe some of my cousins and others in the clan didn’t mind squeezing somebody for their last two bucks, but that wasn’t me. It was just easier for me to take somebody for a ride when I knew they had plenty to spare.

I knew the look of money. I knew the smell of it, the feel of it, the way it moved and the way it talked. I’d been fooled a few times but not too often.

Standing in my doorway was the very picture of classy money. The woman wasn’t flat-out wealthy, but I didn’t need somebody who was so bloated with money, it all but leaked from their pores. And sometimes, the very wealthy were the stingiest sons of bitches around.

No, this was a woman who was…comfortable. Very comfortable.

She was slender and pretty, probably in her mid to late forties, but she could have passed for younger. She looked damned good for her age, whatever it was.

She carried a Coach purse, and although I couldn’t quite see her shoes, I would imagine they were another classy designer. She had on a pretty pants suit, and there was a strand of pearls around her neck.

Maybe a bit dressy for a trip to a local, neighborhood psychic, but I’d bet dollars to donuts this was just her everyday casual wear.

Smiling at her, I moved out from behind my table and offered my hand. “Hello, I’m Sirene. How may I help you?”

I hadn’t had any appointments on schedule, but I was always willing to make time for walk-ins. Especially walk-ins who looked like this.

She was everything I had been hoping for…and dreading.

It put a whole new slant on the old saying, be careful what you ask for.

“Yes…” She hesitated a moment as she looked around, acclimating herself. She was a little nervous, but she didn’t feel terribly out of place. As she slid a hand up then down the strap of her Coach bag, she met my eyes levelly. “You were recommended to me by a friend of mine. Her name was Lois?”

I shook my head. “I’m terrible with names. I’m sorry. I’m great with faces though.” I grinned at her, then added with a shrug, “And the job. I’m usually pretty good at remembering the job although my jobs are confidential. Whatever it is I did for your friend, I can’t discuss it.”

“Oh, you just gave her some job advice, which she took. But she was really blown away by how you helped her grandmother…she’d lost her cat. You helped her find him. He was exactly where you said he’d be.”

At the shelter, I thought, smothering a smile.

“She found him at the shelter just a few blocks from her home. It was just so odd…she’d called there almost every day since he ran off and he was never there. Then she comes to see you and…poof.”

“There was no poof to it, I promise.” I lifted a shoulder and stepped aside to reveal the coffee table. It was, as always, set with a single teacup. “I was just about to have some tea. Would you like some? We can talk about your...needs?”

She gave me a grateful smile. Sometimes it was hard for people to find the right way to approach things.

I never had that problem, but then again, this was a job for me. And it was one I was good at.

“While the tea gets going, why don’t you tell me your name?” I asked, getting a second cup down and plugging in the electric teapot.

“Tamara,” she said, taking the wingchair and putting her purse on the floor next to her feet. As she crossed her ankles, I caught sight of her shoes. Yep. Designer. “It’s Tamara Robson.”

“Well, Mrs. Robson–”

“It’s miz, and please, call me Tamara,” she said with a laugh. “Ms. always makes me feel my age.”

“Please, you can’t be more…” I put my finger to my lips as I gave her a contemplating study. “I’d guess you’re forty at the max.”

“Honey, you’re officially my new best friend, but I’m not sure if you’re a very good psychic,” she said, smiling and wagging a finger at me. “I’m forty-eight – just last month.”

I made a mental note as I shook my head. “That’s unbelievable. So, is it good genes or good skin cream or good living?”

“A little of all three?” She chuckled and accepted the tea I offered, as well as the sugar bowl, but she turned down the cream.

I loaded my cup with both sugar and cream. I’d never much cared for the taste of tea, but it went with the image. As I stirred, I said, “Why don’t you tell me what brings you to me, Tamara?”

She took a small sip of her tea, her eyes flitting around nervously.

Still reluctant. Okay.

“You’ve been to see psychics before, haven’t you?” I asked.

She blinked, surprise in her eyes.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, no big secret. You would be more nervous, more skeptical if this was your first time,” I said, winking at her. “You get to be a good judge of people after you’ve done this a while.”

“Sweetheart, you’re too young to have been doing this too long,” she said with her bright laugh.

“You might be surprised.” But I waved my hand, dismissing her question before she could ask. “Come, let’s talk about why you’re here.”

She didn’t jump straight into it though.

“Is it okay if I move around?” she asked, rising without waiting for an answer.

“Of course.” I sipped my tea as she started to pace. She came to stand in front of a shot I’d taken of footsteps in the sand just before the surf would have washed them away, studying the image, but I had the feeling she wasn’t really seeing the picture itself. “Whoever the artist is, she is quite talented,” she said after a moment.

“Thank you.”

She glanced at me. “They’re yours?” she asked, moving down to look at the piece I’d drawn of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Yes.” I didn’t let the rancor I felt about it show in my voice. “It’s a hobby.”

“It should be more than that.” She huffed out a faint sigh, then murmured, “I’m procrastinating. Forgive me.”

As she came back to sit in front of me, I wondered if she’d been burned before. If that was the case, I’d have to tread very carefully here, and I didn’t have the time to be too careful. I had no idea when Papa planned to go through with his plan to marry Joelle off, but Ephraim wasn’t the most patient of men, so I doubted it would be too long.

She sniffed a bit, and it hit me abruptly that whatever had her hesitating had more to do with something emotional than anything else.

That wasn’t exactly…good.

I hated it when I had to deal with something really gut-wrenching.

Stay focused, Suria, I thought grimly.

“This is a little harder than I thought it would be,” Tamara said, her voice soft. “I guess because it would have been his birthday just the other day. But it’s been so long…”

Without even thinking, I reached for her hand. The colder, more clinical part of me tucked away the information she’d just given me. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

She shot me a look, then slowly, she nodded.

“It’s my brother. He was my brother, but it’s been so many years…” She took a deep breath, then blew it out. “He’s gone now. I know that. But it was my fault, and I was never able to tell him I’m sorry.”

I didn’t offer any of the empty platitudes about how it wasn’t her fault.

I wanted to hear her story first.